Someone once said

There was a ghost on a stage
He danced and he swayed
He was drinking and singing
A song stuck in his brain
On the day of his death I heard him say
I'm a singer and I'll sing
That's just how I'll stay

Now a poet can write
A horrific play
We cry and weep as the actors decay
A suitable role for the emptiest soul
A way that we feel so he plays it so well
But the applause is for showmanship
And the poets behind closed doors
As empty as before so he just sits
And he writes some more

A Gardener plants a bed of flowers in spring
She smiles at the new taste of life she brings
As the plants grow they need light
Then seasons change and weather gets cold
The flowers then wilt and the gardener knows
That everything that lives will someday die
It's just too hard to understand
How something so beautiful can bloom
And how little it lives
Its death is far too soon

A book can be read
From beginning to end
The reader can see every word that's been said
And the characters live a life on a page
Every action they take is predetermined fate
They don't exist just someone's thoughts in ink
But the reader can feel the sadness in words
And after you finish the book each character fades
Just waiting for a sequel
If it ever gets made